The Family Man. Irene Hannon
As the meeting wound down, Amy stood. “I think that wraps things up, unless there are any other issues we need to discuss?” When no one spoke, she reached for her notepad. “Okay. The pizza should be here any minute, so don’t wander too far. Although I don’t think I’ve ever had to twist anyone’s arm to take advantage of a free meal.”
Her comment elicited some chuckles, and as everyone gathered up their papers and rose, Amy turned to Heather. “Would you check with Herman? The pizza should have been delivered by now.”
“No problem.”
This was the part of the meeting Amy had been dreading. After regular sessions, the staff just dispersed. But Amy had started a practice of welcoming new employees with a casual lunch after their first staff meeting. If she skipped the custom this time, it would raise questions—which she didn’t need or want. Better to act as if this was any other welcome party. Meaning she had to stick around, mingle, chat with the new employee. The thing to do was talk business, she counseled herself. Stay away from personal topics.
Steeling herself, she walked over to the tub of soft drinks on a side table and chose a diet soda. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that Bryan was talking with a couple of other writers in the far corner. Good. As long as they kept him occupied, she could lay low. And once the pizza arrived, she’d grab a piece, say a few words to Bryan and disappear.
“Pizza’s here!” Heather called from the doorway, juggling several large flat boxes. As she spread them out on the conference table, the staff converged like hungry buzzards. All except Bryan, Amy realized. He was still standing off to the side, one shoulder propped against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his khaki slacks. As if sensing her perusal, he angled his head her direction and looked at her. Short of being rude, she saw little option but to join him. Better to get it over with, anyway.
As she walked toward him, he straightened up. With her heels adding three inches to her five-foot, five-inch height, Amy was only two or three inches shorter than Bryan. As a result, she didn’t have to look up very far to get a good view into his deep green eyes. Though cool and dispassionate now, Amy recalled with a pang how they had once radiated warmth and devotion. The contrast produced an almost physical ache in her heart, one she didn’t intend to dwell on. It was obvious that Bryan had gotten over her long ago. And she had no one to blame for that except herself.
Looking back, she knew that her cavalier assumption that he would wait around until she was ready to make a commitment had been arrogant and insensitive. She’d known how much family meant to him, how much he wanted to establish a home of his own. But she’d selfishly disregarded his needs, his hopes and dreams. Maybe if they’d talked, they could have found a compromise. Instead, Amy had expected him to dance to her music. Even when he’d stopped calling, she’d just assumed he was giving her the space she’d asked for. His profession of love had been so ardent, so sincere, that it had never occurred to her that he was giving his heart to someone else.
By the time she’d realized what she’d lost, it had been too late. He’d been committed to another, and pride had kept her from contacting him. End of story. Or so she’d thought—until his résumé had crossed her desk. Now he was back, stirring up the embers of the flame that had once burned in her heart for him. And she had no idea how to deal with it.
She stopped beside him and tried for a smile, hoping that her inner turmoil wasn’t reflected on her face. “So…did you find the meeting helpful?” Her tone was a little too bright, and the speculative look on his face told her that he’d noticed.
“It was a good chance to get a feel for everyone’s working style. I’m glad you came over. I wanted to thank you for offering me the job.”
“It was Heather’s decision.”
“But not without your stamp of approval, I’m sure.”
Since she couldn’t refute that, she remained silent.
Glancing over her shoulder, he lowered his voice. “I hope this isn’t too awkward for you.”
Jolted by his direct approach, Amy stared at him. But she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Bryan never had been one to dance around issues. Put the problem on the table, deal with it and move on. That had always been his philosophy. And still was, it seemed.
“Not really,” she responded, carefully lifting one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “Our history is…ancient. A lot of things have happened since then. And we’ve both moved on with our lives.”
“True.” His gaze flickered to her ringless left hand, which had a death grip on the notebook she was clutching to her chest. “I hear you’ve never gotten married.”
His unexpected comment threw her for a second, but she made a quick recovery. “No time. Work has been pretty all-consuming.”
A sardonic smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You always did have more important things to do.”
That hurt. Especially since he was right. Back in college, when she’d planned to take the publishing world by storm, the only thing on her radar screen had been her career. But her priorities were different now, even if Bryan had no way of knowing that. Or of knowing that her workaholic style was an escape from loneliness.
Some of her hurt must have been reflected on her face, because Bryan’s expression shifted, as if he was sorry he’d made that comment. But before he could speak, Ethan Danes loped over to them, his camera equipment slung over his shoulder as he juggled two pieces of pizza and a can of soda. Tall and rangy, his sparkling eyes crackling with energy, it was no wonder he’d been the Hamilton Media heartthrob until he’d lost his heart to Heather six months after his arrival at Nashville Living.
“Have you thought about how you want to illustrate that piece on separation anxiety? Because if you haven’t, I’ve got some ideas.” He took a huge bite of pizza and shifted his cameras into a more comfortable position.
Amy welcomed the distraction. She didn’t want to venture into personal territory with Bryan. It would be safer to confine their conversations to business. “By all means, tell us,” she encouraged.
“It’s a column, right? First person?” At Bryan’s nod, he continued. “Okay, how about we take some pictures of you getting your son ready for his first day of school? Maybe giving him breakfast, packing his knapsack, dropping him off? Readers like that personal touch. It puts a face on the issue.”
Faint furrows appeared on Bryan’s brow. “I’m not sure I want Dylan in the spotlight.”
“He’ll probably get a kick out of it. Unless you think the whole experience of going to school is stressful enough already.”
“No. He’s been in day care for years. Kindergarten won’t be much of a problem for either of us. He’s a little nervous about dealing with new people and a new school, but I dealt with the separation anxiety issue a long time ago.”
The traumatic memory hadn’t faded, however. As if it was yesterday, he recalled how it had just about ripped his heart out to drop his infant son at day care the first few weeks, after all they’d been through together. Born eight weeks early, tipping the scale a whisper above three pounds, Dylan had spent weeks in the neonatal intensive-care unit, much of the time on a ventilator. And it hadn’t been smooth sailing. Twice there had been setbacks, and Bryan had raced to the hospital in the middle of the night. As he’d stood in helpless vigil beside Dylan’s crib during those crises, his heart pounding, his vision blurred with tears, Dylan would look up at him with those huge, solemn brown eyes. Then his son would reach out his tiny hand and grasp Bryan’s finger with a surprisingly strong grip, as if to say, I’m going to make it, Dad. Don’t worry. And he had. But that had been the loneliest, most emotionally wrenching time in Bryan’s life. Not only had he lost the wife he’d loved, but he’d awakened every day to the fear that he would also lose the son she’d died trying to save. So leaving him at day care had been the toughest thing Bryan had ever done.
“Look, I can come up with something else. No big deal.”